


Songbird

by SumOfAllThings



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abduction, Abuse, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Battle, Daddy Issues, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enemies to Friends, Forced Servitude, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Heartbreak, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaskier Don’t Take No Shit, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mouthy Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rape Recovery, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:15:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29273817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SumOfAllThings/pseuds/SumOfAllThings
Summary: Usually, when he was unhappy, Jaskier liked to voice his complaints loudly and in glorious detail. He refrained, barely, conscious that Cahir was unlikely to be enamoured with his griping.“Will you halt your infernal squirming,” the soldier eventually snapped, his voice quiet enough not to carry but clearly conveying his annoyance.“I’m sore,” he snapped back venomously, too exhausted to mind his tone, though he was careful to keep his voice to a hissed whisper.********Follows on from ‘Rare Species’. Jaskier and Geralt have been separated for a year. During that time Jaskier’s acclaim has continued to flourish far and wide, until eventually he attracts the attention of an emperor.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 45
Kudos: 260





	1. Chapter 1

“I don’t suppose you have room for one more?” Jaskier asked brightly, bowing deeply before the small caravan of people. 

He counted four families in total, along with four hired guards. They seemed friendly enough and would provide some safety from the upheviel Jaskier had inadvertently stumbled across whilst travelling south.

“I admit I have little in the way of resources, but I promise the trip will be all the more pleasant for my company.” He took out his lute, playing a lively tune that was happily received by the younglings. 

“Oh darling, please say yes,” a young woman said excitedly, a child clinging to her skirts. “It will make the trip so much more bearable.”

Jaskier carefully didn’t look at the woman - he knew what sort of reputation he had - and winked at the child before locking eyes with her father.

The merchant gave him a searching look, smirking slightly and nodding towards the lead caravan. 

“Go on then Bard. In the back.”

He gave a quick salute and took his designated seat with glee. A few days off his feet and the chance to hone his skills among a respective audience was a treat indeed. 

He exchanged names with his comrades as the day progressed, finding he had a shadow named Rose who was clearly enthralled with him. She was six years old and had taken it upon herself to declare them betrothed. 

“As lovely as you are - and indeed you are quite beautiful, pretty Rose - I fear I may be a smidgen too old for you.”

The girl blinked at him, unimpressed. 

“Would a song help?” He half asked, half pleaded.

Light, tittering laughter caught his attention. “You’re afraid of a mere babe, bard?”

Despite himself Jaskier smiled. “She is a ferocious lady warrior. Of course I fear her.”

Rose sat up, clearly pleased with herself. “I am a warrior momma.”

“So I’ve heard,” Liana laughed sweetly. 

“Play me a song, Jaskier,” she demanded.

“Of course, darling,” Jaskier said, launching into a song about a warrior queen named Rose who defeated a demon. 

He stayed with the caravan for a week, comfortable and secure in their company. He behaved himself too, revisiting the urge to flirt or tease.

He felt the tension in his shoulders ease the further north they travelled, moving away from warring armies and desperate peasants.

Jaskier wasn’t made for war. He’d decided he was going to return to Oxenfurt. A year safely spent in the university would give him the opportunity to finally lick the open wounds he could still feel on his broken heart. 

They stopped off at an inn on their seventh night, tired and in need of a respite. Jaskier kept close to his travelling companions, feeling an oppressive sinking feeling in his stomach when he saw the somber way the townsfolk stared resolutely at their ale and meals. 

Something wasn’t right.

“Will you sing tonight, Jaskier?” Liana asked softly, her tone hopeful but misplaced. The inn would not welcome his talents, he was sure.

His gaze wandered over a group of men, all of them cloaked and hooded. One of them looked up quite suddenly and their eyes locked for a short moment before Jaskier pointedly looked away. 

There was something not right about the group, but as the evening wore on they simply went to their own beds. Jaskier did the same and the next morning he and his companions were up and ready to travel.

“Sooner the better,” he grumbled, pulling out his lute the moment they were away from the inn and playing a lovely time. 

*******

Jaskier was forlorn, for he realised he would need to part company with his new friends on the morn. They were going east and he needed to travel west. It was inevitable of course, but it still saddened him. 

They spent the night in merriment and Jaskier made sure to give them a rip roaringly good time. He danced and sang and told his favourite stories. He was determined that they remember him fondly. 

When at last night was using them and the others went to bed, Jaskier sat beside the fire, tired and miserable.

He didn’t want to be alone again. 

************

  
  


“Calm yourself bardling,” an unfamiliar voice whispered softly in Jaskier’s ear as a black gloved hand clamped over his lower jaw, effectively silencing his instinctive cry for help. 

He attempted to jerk forward and break free - he needed to warn the camp - but before he could gain any traction a burly arm wrapped around his chest, further restricting his breath. He was hoisted to his feet and pulled against a broad, armoured chest. “I’d stay close if I was you,” his assailant hissed, dragging him further away from the fire. “This isn’t going to end well for your travelling companions.”

Jaskier screamed against the mans’ hand, panicked and terrified when he saw a group of black clad soldiers creep among the sleeping merchants. 

Where the fuck was the damn lookout?

“Struggle and I’ll have to hurt you,” the man warned softly, forcing Jaskier’s head against his shoulder. 

The flames from the campfire reflected off the soldiers blades, glinting ominously as they raised them above his sleeping companions. 

“It won’t do any good. They’re as good as dead.”

_Oh gods, the bastards were going to murder them in their sleep._

He screamed again, thrashing desperately. 

The flaring pain in his stomach registered seconds before he heard terrified screams and guttural groans of agony. He sagged in the soldiers grasp, unable to catch his breath. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the man hissed, his hand still clapped over Jaskier’s mouth.

He couldn’t _breathe_.

He clawed desperately at the soldiers hand, the merchants momentarily forgotten as he came to the conclusion that he might actually suffocate to death. He could barely hear his companions over the blood rushing through his ears. What a terrible way to die - he wasn’t even permitted the dignity of cursing his murderer.

“Stop struggling and I’ll let go,” the soldier whispered, calm and oh so reasonable as chapped lips pressed lightly against Jaskier’s temple.

He whimpered pathetically and forced himself to go limp. He didn’t want to die.

“Good boy,” his assailant praised, finally removing his hand. Jaskier gasped desperately for breath, sobbing and more than a little terrified. “That’s it. Just breathe for me.”

When he could finally see through the tears and sweat in his eyes he was confronted by his companions, all of them dead. Even little Rose, with her twinkling eyes and sun kissed curls.

There was so much blood. 

“Why?” he gasped, hating himself for the way his voice shook. “They didn’t do anything to you.”

The soldier sniffed disdainfully, grabbing Jaskier’s bicep and dragging him through the camp. 

“Wait,” he gasped, planting his feet. “My instruments.”

It was a stupid thing to worry about considering everything that had happened. The man chuckled mockingly before tightening his grip and practically yanking Jaskier off his feet. 

The other soldiers bared him no mind as he was dragged among them, too busy rummaging through the merchants' supplies.

“Where are you taking me?” Jaskier demanded, stumbling alongside the other man as they moved further into the woods. Had he been spared just so some lunatic could dismember him in their own sweet time? “For fuck sake, tell me what’s happening!”

“You’re coming with me,” the soldier said simply.

Despite himself Jaskier released a brittle pearl of laughter. “No shit. But why? he snarled, reaching blindly for the small dagger he kept as his waist. “I’m just a bard, you realise?”

No answer.

“If you’re so desperate for a song, just visit a damned inn. We bards are a penny a dozen,” he hefted his dagger, surreptitiously looking for a weak spot in the soldiers armour.

“You cheat yourself, little bird,” the other man said, his tone falsely cheerful. “Why, you’re known throughout all the lands. The Witcher’s bard. It is an impressive title, is it not?”

Jaskier stumbled as the puzzle pieces started to slot into place. “I’m not with him,” he said immediately. “I haven’t seen him for more than a year. I don’t know where he is.”

“I know,” the soldier said simply.

That stunned him for a moment. “Then why are you here?” he asked, hating how confused he sounded. “I can’t help you.”

The soldier shook his head in mock sympathy. “Not everything is about the White Wolf. You’ve gained some notoriety of your own, bard. Our emperor wishes only the best for his court.”

“Bollocks,” Jaskier said immediately. 

The soldier huffed, his pace quickening. Jaskier could make out a fire up ahead - their camp no doubt.

He needed to act.

He swallowed, drew back the blade and aimed it at the soldier’s neck. He felt a shock of pain when his wrist was caught midair and he was dragged bodily against the other man. 

They were almost of a height, he noted somewhat absently. 

“Drop it,” the soldier snarled, no longer sounding amused. 

Jaskier gritted his teeth. “Go fuck yourself.”

In for a penny and all that…

The other man squeezed his wrist hard enough that Jaskier was certain he heard something pop. He released the knife with a grunt of pain and then properly cried out as he was backhanded hard enough to send him to one knee.

“Ouch,” he said miserably as a hand caught the collar and dragged him back to his feet. 

“That was stupid, Jaskier,” the solider growled, doing a surprisingly good impression of Geralt. He gave him a pointed look as he pocketed the dagger. “I’ll give you that one attempt. Try anything again and I’ll break your hand.”

Jaskier felt his entire body seize in terror. He was dragged unresisting into the soldiers camp and dropped unceremoniously on top of a bedroll near the main fire. He looked up warily and found no less than twenty pairs of eyes on him. He was used to being stared at - took great pleasures in it usually.

He smiled weakly, gesturing at himself. “Usually when I have such an attentive audience I’d offer a song or two, but I’m afraid I don’t have my lute,” he glared daggers at his assailant before turning back to the soldiers. “A tale perhap?” he offered nervously.

A few of the soldiers laughed. It broke the silence. If nothing else and declared Jaskier a non-threat. If he wasn’t so relieved he might feel insulted. 

“Save your voice, bard,” the soldier declared as one of his comrades approached, bearing a manacle and long chain. 

“commander Cahir,” the solider said, holding the manacle up for inspection.

Jaskier looked between them, feeling a dull panic in his chest. “Now hold on a moment. There really isn’t any need -“

He broke off with a grasp as he was knocked flat on his back. He felt cold metal encircle his right ankle and caught the urge to scream as he slowly sat up, making a show of dusting down his dishevelled clothes. “A little excessive, don’t you think?” he grumbled unhappily. 

“Just making sure you don’t try to fly away, little bird,” Cahir said softly, running a gentle hand over Jaskier’s crown. “Be glad I’ve left your hands unfettered. It is a privilege, not a right.”

“Lucky me,” Jaskier muttered, trembling very slightly as more soldiers entered the camp. They were rowdy and cheerful, covered in the blood of innocents and babes. They sorted through their stolen winnings, clearly thrilled with what they’d manage to pillage. 

Jaskier watched them silently, weary and more than a little heartsick. Logically he knew he wasn’t to blame for the merchants deaths, but the truth of the matter was that they would still be alive if Jaskier didn’t decide to travel with them.

“Hey!” He cried, spotting his lute clutched in the hand of some heathen. “Oi - careful with that you great bloody lummox. Give it back!”

He almost made it to his feet before a hand fisted in his hair and knocked him on his arse. He looked up irritably, expecting Cahir. Instead he was greeted with an entirely new, much more severe face. 

“Sit bard,” the man growled, his grip tightening painfully. 

“Careful brother,” Cahir interrupted, his tone causing a shiver to run down Jaskiers spine. “He’s just a bard - they’re all the same when it comes to the tools of their trade,” he gestured to the soldier holding Jaskier’s flute and passing it to him with a smile. “There we are, safe and sound.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmured, pulling the instrument close to his chest. 

That smile again. Jaskier had seen it before, many times in fact. Usually though he wasn’t at quite such a disadvantage. He looked away, his gaze jumping over the camp, searching for an escape route.

“Your too soft brother,” the other soldier scoffed, sneering down at Jaskier with open disdain. “They’re all the same. Spoiled, pretty whores. That this ones supposedly more talented than the rest simply means he’s made bending over an art form.”

Jaskier realised his mouth was hanging open and he closed it with a click. He’d heard it all before, of course. There was a thin line between bard and whore in the minds of many. 

“Rude,” he huffed, pulling the lute closer. He lifted his head, feeling his temper start to boil. “And entirely inaccurate to boot, I might add. I’m not a whore, thank you very much. But even if I was, I think you’ll find it a far more honourable profession than murdering helpless babes in arms. Though perhaps your morals are a tad skewered if you think murder and pillaging more acceptable than the giving and receivi g of pleasure.”

It was a mistake, he realised. The moment he words left his traitorous mouth and silence permeated the camp. He looked up warily, crying out when a boot connected solidly with his ribs.

“Damn it all Davison, leave him be,” Cahir snarled, pushing the bastard aside. “He’s not to be harmed.”

“He’s not so delicate he can’t take a kick,” the man drawled. “Whores are used to be slapped around, after all.”

Jaskier wheezed out a pathetic curse as he curled into himself, happy at least that he’d avoided the lute.

“Time to sleep, little bird,” Cahir breathed, pulling Jaskier back to his feet. “You’ll stay in my tent, where I can keep an eye on you.”

A most displeasing proposition, but probably the safest option given how the soldiers were watching him and muttering none too quietly about his supposed talents. He shuddered miserably - it would not be a pleasant way to die.

The tent was small, with a single pallet and little else in the way of comfort.

“Do you expect me to sleep on the floor?” He asked arily, trying to cover his discomfort with bravado. 

“You can share the pallet with me, if you like,” Cahir offered, smirking at Jaskier’s discomfort. “No? Well then I hope this meets with your approval.” He threw some furs on the floor and made a sharp gesture. “Gone on then, to bed with you.”

“Arsehole,” Jaskier mumbled in elder speech as he settled on the skins, suddenly exhausted. He saw Cahir’s eyelids flicker but if the man understood him he didn’t voice his displeasure. 

He watched through slotted eyes as the soldier took his ankle chain and wrapped it around his wrist. “Don’t try anything foolish, bardling. Even if you somehow manage to escape this tent you won’t get far. But never fear. If you obey you’ll love to sing another day. This I promise you.”

Jaskier made a watery gesture with his hands, curled up into a tight ball and attempted to block out the sounds of the soldiers chatter.

Despite his exhaustion it took a long time for sleep to find him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the soldiers, his fate and the merchants. He was frightened - deathly afraid in fact. There would be no rescue this time. He truly was alone. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier hummed mindlessly, composing a new harmony with little thought beyond the need to occupy his mind with something other than dread and terror. He was fidgeting badly - a nervous habit of his - which was rather ruining the cool aloofness he wished to portray to his captors.

The soldiers weren’t helping. Jaskier tried to close his ears to the barely hushed insults, but they weren’t making it easy. He was no blushing virgin, but the vulgarity of their words was enough to make even his seasoned ears burn. _Who knew there were so many words for cock._ In any other circumstance he’d be thrilled - the opportunity to expand his vocabulary was always welcome - but it was less appealing when he was the subject of discussion.

He locked eyes on his hands, attempting to block everyone out as he ran his fingers over his stead’s long, cream coloured mane. She was a gentle creature that he’d secretly named Orianna. He couldn’t know for sure but he thought she might find the sound of his voice soothing. If nothing else being close to something so pure offered some much needed comfort.

He twisted slightly, trying to relieve the muscles in his back, finding little in the way of relief. His arms remained free but his middle was tightly secured to the saddle, ensuring he remained tethered in place.

It was a little insulting if he was being honest with himself, which he always tried to be. Was he really such a non-threat? He had half a mind to get his hands on a knife and stab someone.

Cahir was personally holding Orianna reigns, having taken ownership of them as soon as they set off. “Don’t want you getting any ideas,” the soldier had said pleasantly.

Jaskier had dimpled a smile, muttering under his breath in elder speak. The man had merely smirked at him, amused. He was fairly certain Cahir couldn’t understand him - few humans other than scholars bothered to learn the older tongues - even so, he took the risk. Being able to insult his captors offered a release of sorts.

He returned to humming, eventually trying an odd lyric here and there. Soon, without really meaning to, he started singing. Softly enough that his voice wouldn’t carry, although he noticed a few people were actively listening. He didn’t mind. Listening meant they had less time to spend trying to shame and terrify him.

He could feel Cahir’s gaze throughout the day and steadfastly ignored the other man. It didn’t make it any less uncomfortable of course, but Jaskier had spent years being stared at. He could bear it.

 _At least he thought he could_.

“Have you nothing better to do than gawk at me?” he eventually snapped, immediately regretting it when he saw the unimpressed look on the other man's face.

Cahir drew alongside Jaskier’s horse and leaned very close, looming over the smaller man.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said immediately, thoroughly cowed despite the fact Cahir hadn’t even threatened him yet. “I’m just nervous. Understandable, I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m not used to being around soldiers. I usually avoid them like the plague.” he felt the colour drain from his face. “Not that there's anything wrong with soldiers. Well, most soldiers,” he cringed, drawing into himself. “I’ll just shut up, shall I?”

“An excellent idea,” the other man agreed, his tone jovial and loud enough to carry. “Otherwise you’ll be gagged.”

The surrounding soldiers snickered and jeered, some of them offering helpful suggestions regarding the various ways they might provide said gag.

He was going to be sick. Even his steady nerves could only take so much.

He looked up warily and noticed Cahir wasn’t moving away. He instinctively shrank back, convinced he was about to be struck.

Cahir lifted his hand slowly, ignoring Jaskier flinch as he ran his hand down the back of the bard's head until he was holding onto his nape. “You would do well to heed what I’m about to tell you, bardling,” he said quietly. “Disrespect me in front of my men again and I’ll have you beaten. I make no idle threats. Understood?”

“Perfectly,” Jaskier whispered shakily, meeting his eyes before quickly looking away.

Cahir’s grip tightened to the point of pain, his moist breath washing over Jaskier’s cheek. “And if I wish to look at you I shall, to my hearts content in fact.”

Jaskier curled into himself, completely miserable. “Of course,” he whispered, keeping the bitterness out of his voice. “As you say, my lord.”

The other man hummed lightly, his fingers becoming a light caress. “Get to it then.”

Jaskier looked up uncomprehendingly.

“Sing for us, little bird.”

****

“He’s a flighty creature,” Davison muttered, his eyes lingering a little too long on the bard for it to be considered anything other than ogling. “He won’t last five minutes at court.”

“You underestimate him brother,” Cahir admonished softly. “He’s made his living serving at many a court. Not to mention a lifetime spent travelling with the white wolf. He’ll survive well enough, of that I’m sure.”

“A lifetime acting as his whore, you mean.” Davison’s expression turned shrewd. “You seem to have taken a liking to him, I’ve noticed.”

“Is that so?” He asked, feigning disinterest.

“He’s pretty enough I suppose,” the other man mused. “If it weren’t for his inane chatter I might even see the appeal.”

“Part of his charm I’m sure.”

Jaskier looked up then, frowning when he realised they were looking at him. His eyes flickered between them before he looked away and lowered his gaze. His lips were moving but he was speaking too quietly for Cahir to make out what he was saying. Nimble fingers played over the manacle, running circles over the thick metal band.

A soldier passed close by, speaking too quietly for Cahir to hear. The bard shied away, wide eyed as he followed the soldiers steps.

Cahir hummed non-committedly, deciding to check on the boys chains. He made his way over to the bard and felt a thrill of pleasure when wide grey eyes blinked owlishly up at him.

“You seem mighty interested in those chains,” he remarked, dropping to his haunches to check they were still secure. “Do your many skills perchance include lockpicking?”

The bard scoffed with fake jovelity. “I’ll have you know I’m a highly respectful pillar of the community, Frankly, I find your insinuations highly insulting.”

Cahir allowed his lips to curl into a small smile. “So that’s a yes.”

The bard shrugged and looked away. “I don’t suppose it overly matters what I say. But for what it’s worth, I’m not very good. Certainly not good enough to remove these.”

“You wouldn’t be able to take them off even if you were the most amazing lockpick that ever lived.”

“Oh?” Jaskier asked, looking thoughtful. “Are they enchanted?”

“Indeed they are,” Cahir said, mildly surprised the bard seems so blasé, but then the man was used to being in the company of a witcher.

“Goody,” he said, sounding tired. “Will you tell me what it does?”

“Put it this way, if you value your foot I wouldn’t tamper too much with the lock. The choice is yours of course. It’s not as if you need to be able to walk to perform at court.”

Jaskier stared at the manacle like he expected it to jump up and bite him. “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

Cahir ruffled the bard's hair, pleased when he made no attempt to pull away. “Keep your hands to yourself and you’ll be fine.”

He gestured to a nearby soldier, beckoning him close. “Bring the bard to my tent,” he commanded, walking off before the man could respond.

A few moments later he heard a commotion and yelling. He resisted the urge to curse and opened his tent flaps with a flourish, only to come practically face to face with the bard and Davison.

“What are you doing brother? He asked, stepping aside and allowing them entrance.

Davison had both arms wrapped around the bard's middle, practically carrying him inside. “One of the men got handsy and your little bird attempted to take flight. Not that you got very far,” he said, bumping his cheek against Jaskier’s temple. “A thoroughly stupid endeavour, all things considered.”

“Let go of me,” the bard gasped, his tone bordering on hysterical. His wide grey eyes sparkled with unshed tears as he thrashed and twisted to no avail. “Damn it all, let go of me you damned son of a pox ridden whore!” He made a final pathetic attempt to break free, tearing frantically at Davinson’s arms. “What the hell is wrong with you people? If you’re really so desperate for a fuck, stop off at a whore house and take your fill, but leave me the hell alone!”

Cahir wasn’t hugely surprised - the bard had been under close scrutiny all day, receiving no end of threats and dark promises. If was frankly amazing he had managed as long as he had without cracking.

It didn’t make his outburst any more acceptable of course. After all, they had a long trip ahead of them. The best thing would be to teach him his place among them early on.

It would be a kindness really.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt couldn’t settle. He walked, he mediated and he slayed any beast stupid and unfortunate enough to cross his path, and yet the unrelenting _need to move_ persisted.

He hated the cloying, acid feeling in his chest - was it guilt, or perhaps even shame? He refused to believe he was feeling anything close to heartache...no, he was a Witcher. He did not feel as humans felt - he lacked the emotion. He was incapable of it.

The days wore on, full of drudgery, grey skies and bleak landscapes. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. He was used to silence. During the winter and early months of spring he was often alone. He used to treasurer that time - the quiet and the peace.

It felt stifling now. Weeks spent barely speaking or being addressed - the latter leaving him oddly drained and weary. Damn it all, when had he grown so weak? He was a Witcher for fuck sake. What did he care for companionship?

“You look like you could use a friend,” a pretty whore noted, her lovely blue eyes bright and full of spit as she brazenly took a seat opposite him in a dank little inn. She was a very good actress, given that she stank of fear.

“Go away woman,” he muttered, sipping from a cup of piss poor ale. Perhaps if he drank enough he might forget his woes for a while. It was worth a try.

She hummed softly, all soft brown hair and big blue eyes. He wrinkled his nose, trying to relieve himself of her fear stench as he considered her.

“Alright,” he finally allowed, draining his drink and getting to his feet.

She followed him to his room and he proceeded to fuck her brainless. She cried out, making all the right noises and encouragements. And when he was spent he threw her out, thoroughly dissatisfied and more regretful than ever.

The worst part was the realisation that it was all his fault. He’d lost the one woman he’d ever really cared for, and in the same breath he’d chased off his closest companion.

“What need have I for companionship?” He muttered angrily, stroking Roaches nose as he stared resolutely at the road leading out of the village. “What need have I for anyone?”

The next town he visited was the same as any other, small and filled to the brim with dirty, unwashed souls. He took his place among them, sitting alone in the shadows, little better than a wrathe.

He heard it then, that familiar, damned song. His heart, usually slow and steady, quickened in his chest. His mouth became dry as sawdust as he looked up at a trim, dark haired bard.

Except it wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t him. He’d told the man to leave and for the first time in his life the little fool had actually listened. He knew the bard was avoiding him, taking paths untraveled to ensure their roads didn’t cross.

He deserved it, he supposed. For what he said and the way he acted.

 _Alone. Forever_.

“You’re the one from the stories,” a girl declared on the road one day, her tone full of wonder and so much life. “The one the bards sing about.”

He merely grunted, moving forward. _Always forward. Always onwards._

“I want to be a bard,” she confessed, her hands in her pockets, acting like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Like Jaskier.”

He snarled at her, instantly scenting her terror as she stumbled back and fell over her own feet.

“Do not say that name to me,” he barked.

Where his bard would have laughed or deflected, the girl curled into a frightened ball. He left her lying there, refusing to feel guilt or remorse.

 _She would have made a shit bard_.

Weeks turned into months and winter approached. He moved south, following the season. For reasons unbeknownst to him he was unprepared to make his yearly trip to Kaer Morhen. It felt too much like giving up.

At last he heard whispers. _He_ had passed through a village, a town. The further south he travelled the more stories he picked up, until eventually, one night he heard tell of a merchant party where every man, woman and babe had been slaughtered, the caravan picked clean.

The white wolf's bard was rumoured to have been among them.

********

Cahir’s hand slowly encircled the bards slender throat, applying gentle pressure - not throttling him, not yet, though the threat was implicit.

Jaskier’s eyes widened, both hands reaching up to grasp Cahir’s wrist. “Now, just wait a moment,” he gasped shakily. “There’s no need - _ugh_.”

Cahir squeezed, only once, but it was enough to silence the bard, for the moment at least. “You don’t seem to appreciate your place among us yet, but never fear because I will teach you.”

Jaskier looked ready to burst, his hands flapping wildly until Cahir squeezed again, harder this time. “You’re not pissing about in some pretty court or backwater village anymore, boy. You’re among hardened soldier's - dangerous men,” he dragged him closer, his grip tightening very slightly. “Do you know what they see when they look at you? A soft, frivolous creator that’s wasted it’s life avoiding the toils and tribulations of a real man. You are naught to them but a pretty trinket to be gifted to our emperor. And if they should see fit to touch you, unless they’re trying to stick their cocks down your pretty little throat, you will let them. Do I make myself clear?”

“I - yes, I hear you,” he rasped, wide-eyed and terrified. He clearly wanted to say more, but he bit his lip and wisely lowered his gaze.

Cahir nodded once and pushed him towards his little pile of furs. “Go to sleep, Bard. And if you should speak another word without being addressed you will feel the force of my wrath.”

The smaller man staggered back, his hand fluttering to his throat as he attempted to put some space between them. He opened his mouth, releasing a startled squeak and biting down on his lip at the last moment.

Cahir could feel a smile tugging at his lips at the bard's antics. “Ridiculous creature. Sit down.”

Jaskier’s expression soured into a glare that clearly conveyed exactly what he wasn’t saying. Cahir lifted a single brow and glared back. The bard stumbled, lowering his gaze again and settling onto the furs as instructed.

“Good boy,” Cahir said softly, securing the smaller man's chain and stepping towards his desk to plot their return to the city.

****

Jaskier felt scared, jittery… _violated_. He couldn’t seem to stop trembling. He watched Cahir warily, wishing he’d leave so he could have a moment unsupervised to collect himself. The other man seemed disinclined to leave. Worse, he was actively staring at him.

He looked up a few times, cringing when he met the soldiers' steely gaze.

“Surely you have something better to do than watch me,” he snapped, slapping his hands over his mouth when he realised his mistake. He shook his head, curling into himself in an attempt to make himself a smaller target. “Im sorry - _I’m sorry_! I didn’t mean it!” Cahir stood up with an unhappy sigh and Jaskiers felt what little mouth to brain filter he had left break. “And let’s be honest for a moment shall we, it’s hardly reasonable to expect someone to just stop talking. I mean, what is a bard without his words? Oh gods, please don’t!”

“You will. _Shut. Up._ ” The soldier sneered, the look in his eyes as dangerous as any monster Jaskier had ever laid eyes on.

The backhand to his cheek hurt, but the makeshift gag forced into his mouth was so much worse. He looked forlornly at his torn sleeve, wondering why the other man felt the need to ruin one of his favourite shirts.

“Take it out of your mouth and next time I’ll make you swallow it.”

It was probably a good thing he couldn’t speak because his response likely would have got him killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re enjoying the story please feed me kudos and/or comment :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn’t the nicest chapter. I’ve not gone into explicit detail but there’s enough going on that you should heed the warnings.

Cahir removed the gag later that evening, his fingers sliding intimately over Jaskier’s cheek, lingering unnecessarily. Jaskier instinctively looked up and almost immediately averted his gaze. In his experience it rarely ended well for him when men looked at him in that _particular_ way.

“Do you think you can behave without this?” Cahir asked, his voice thick with condescension as he brandished the filthy makeshift gag in Jaskier’s face.

“Was that a question?” Jaskier asked, exhausted and unbearably unhappy. He wanted the whole horrid experience over with - to walk away and never look back. “Am I allowed to answer or were you being rhetorical?”

Cahir’s eyelid twitched. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I’m just trying to figure out the rules,” the smaller man said quickly, hands raised in supplication. “Surely you don’t expect me to never speak again?”

If he did, he was going to be sorely disappointed because he was right - Jaskier really, honestly couldn’t help himself.

“The rules are simple. Speak when spoken to and be respectful. It shouldn’t be hard, even for a bard to comprehend.”

Jaskier felt his lips pull back into a nasty smile. He rarely felt the need for violence but he suddenly wished he had something at hand to throw. “Well thank you for the clarification. It’s appreciated - very useful. I’m sure now that we’ve had our little chat we can avoid any further unpleasantries.”

Cahir regarded him for a long moment before his expression turned cruelly calculating. “If our emperor didn’t covet your reportedly sweet singing voice I’d cut out your tongue. Save us all the trouble of having to listen to your incessant chatter,” he caught Jaskiers jaw and squeezed cruelly. “No,” he barked, causing the bard to startle badly. “Don’t look away again,” his grip tightened painfully. “Look at me.”

Jaskier cringed and reluctantly obeyed.

Cahir’s grip immediately gentled, his expression softening. “But then there are so many things a talented tongue might achieve, beyond mere singing. Tell me, little bird, is it true most bards roll over, for the right price of course?”

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat with mortification and felt no small amount of panic. He had heard it all before, but he was rarely in such a vulnerable position. “I can’t speak for everyone,” he said, high pitched and tense. “But I can assure you it's not true of this particular bard.”

Cahir hummed noncommittally.

“My singing provides enough coin to keep me fed and in some luxury,” he continued, babbling. “I don’t need to resort to other means to get by.”

Cahir’s eyes were eerily intense as grasped Jaskier’s collar and hoisted him to his feet. The smaller man stumbled, stiffening when he felt a muscled arm wrap around his waist. “It’s a long road to the emperor, bardling. My soldiers already grow weary and restless.”

“They're your men,” Jaskier hissed, the feeling of helplessness intensifying as he leant as far from the soldier as his grip would allow. “Surely you can control them?”

“Of course I can,” he scoffed. “But I also need to consider if doing so is worth the effort. After all, why should they be denied pleasure. You understand I hope?”

Jaskier could feel his panic building. He remembered a time long ago, when he was still young and painfully naive, stumbling into the court of a duke who was feuding with his king. The man's keep was attacked and his people desiccated. Jaskier managed to escape with his life, but he’d seen things that would stay with him for the rest of his days.

Fucked to death by a pack of soldiers was not the way in which he wished to leave this mortal coil.

“Make yourself freely available to me and I’ll ensure you’re not entirely without comfort,” Cahir whispered intemently into his ear, giving up all pretences of disinterest as he bit lightly into the side of Jaskier’s throat.

The smaller man licked his suddenly dry lips. Some small part of him was crying and screaming - he was almost proud of himself for not succumbing to his panic - instead, he felt oddly numb. “And if I don’t?” he asked, his voice catching despite the fact he didn’t actually feel anything.

Cahir used his free hand to run his fingers gently through the bard's hair. “Will you make me say it out loud?”

Jaskier shuddered. When he attempted to look away Cahir’s grip tightened in warning.

“What’s it to be, little bird?”

What choice did he have? Give himself to the other man in the hope of avoiding some pain, or be forced anyway -possibly get badly hurt in the process - and then thrown to his men. Pride and honour was all very good for soldiers and warriors. Jaskier was neither.

He nodded his head, very slightly, and was immediately maneuvered towards Cahir’s pallet. The soldier sent them tumbling onto the thin mattress, maneuvering Jaskier until he was thoroughly pinned beneath him.

The soldier reached for his own belt, pulling it free with a vicious glint in his eyes. His hands went to Jasker’s trousers and he wasted no time dragging them down and over his hips. Jaskier heard a ripping sound as Cahir relieved him of his shirt.

“That was one of my favourites,” he said unthinkingly - indignant.

Cahir huffed against his throat as greedy hands ran carelessly over Jaskers flesh. “Quite, little bird.”

Jaskier closed his eyes, placing his hands over his face. He felt humiliated and they’d barely started.

“None of that,” Cahir snarled, grabbing Jaskier’s wrists and forcing them down beside his head. He should have known the other man wouldn’t allow him the small mercy of hiding his face. “You keep your eyes on me. Understand?”

Jaskier felt something inside him crack. “It’s not bad enough you’re going to rape me, but you’ll force me to watch too?”

Cahir regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, before flipping Jaskier onto his stomach with worrying ease. “Very well, I’ll grant you this kindness because you’ve been good,” the man whispered throaty, his hands kneeling greedily at the globes of Jaskiers arse. “You’ve taken male lovers, yes?”

Jaskier nodded miserably, clutching the bed sheets as his legs were nudged apart.

“Of course you have,” Cahir growled, sounding pleased. “That will makes this easier. I have some oil. Don’t move.”

**************

“Hello Geralt,” Yennefer said pleasantly, running her fingers lightly through Ciri’s light hair. The girl was curled up on Yen’s lap, sound asleep. “How goes the bard hunting?”

“Dead, reportedly.” He said, voice flat - uncaring. He stared down at them, peaceful and content without him. He wondered why he’d come, but in his heart he knew the truth. He was lost, moving in circles. He needed to know what happened. “He was travelling with a caravan of merchants. They were attacked by soldiers. There were no survivors.”

She hummed very lightly as she continued to run her fingers through the girls long hair. “Have you found a body?”

He shook his head, unable to voice the desperation and relief he’d experienced digging up the merchants bodies and realising Jaskier wasn’t among them. 

“Do you have anything of his?”

“What?” Geralt asked.

“A possession. A strip of cloth, a lock of hair?” When he continued to stare at her she rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath. “For goodness sake Geralt, anything at all?”

He paused for only a second before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small wooden pick. Jaskier had drunkenly given it to him one evening when they were due to part for the winter. _Something to remember me by_ , he’d said solemnly before passing out on Geralt’s lap.

Yen smiled brilliantly when he passed it to her. “Always keep that in your pocket, do you?” She asked, tone bordering on teasing. 

“Shut up,” he growled without any heat, watching curiously as she gently eased Ciri off her lap. “Why do you need it?”

“I’m going to track him of course,” she said pleasantly, standing up and brushing down her elegant gown. “Never fear. If he’s alive I’ll find him for you.”

Geralt felt like he had a lump of coal on his throat as he settled by the fire and waited for Yen to collect the tools she needed to complete the spell. Ciri stirred beside him, sitting up sleepily. Her lips split into a wide smile when she spotted him.

“Geralt, you’re back!” She cried excitedly, throwing herself in his arms. “You were gone so long this time. I’ve missed you.”

More guilt - more remorse. He’d dropped the girl with Yen months ago, stopping by on occasion to check up on them but never staying for longer than a few days.

He needed to do better.

“What’s happening?” She asked, eagerly taking note of what Yen was up to.

“We’re looking for a friend of Garalt’s,” The sorceress said with a salacious smile as she settled beside them with an arm full of items.

The girl's face came alight with curiosity. “A friend? Really? Who is it Geralt?”

“A bard,” he said shortly, keen for Yen to continue.

“Do you mean Jaskier? The one that sings all of your songs?”

He looked down at her, surprised despite himself. “You know him?”

“Of course. He came yearly to court. Grandmother never turned him away, but she didn’t seem to like him very much. Even so, he was always very kind to me.”

It was a sobering thought - Jaskier had spent years trying to convince him to visit Ciri - it was a regular, old argument between them. He never dreamed the bard would take on the responsibility in his stead.

He had been wrong about so many things.

“Here Geralt,” Yen said softly, passing him the scrying mirror with a gentle smile. She closed her eyes, chanting an unfamiliar incantation in the elder _speak_. The mirror fogged and then he _saw him_.

“He’s alive,” Geralt breathed.

Alive - thank the gods - but definitely not well. Jaskier’s usually bright eyes eyes dull and ringed by dark circles.

“Oh, they’ve gagged him,” Yen said, sounding surprisingly unhappy considering she usually delighted in quarrelling with the bard.

It seemed unjustifiably cruel to take away Jaskier’s voice. The bard had so few defences beyond his sharp tongue and quick whit.

He would hate being silenced.

“Poor Jaskier” Ciri whispered as the bard was dragged off his horse and thrown roughly to the ground. “He looks so small.”

Soldiers stepped over and around the bard as they made camp, bearing him no mind despite the fact they were clearly there to guard him. Jaskier did look _small_ among them - unarmed and wearing a torn and filthy purple tunic. - a paltry defended compared to the soldiers swords and armour.

“Where are they?” he demanded, clenching the scrying glass so hard he heard a distinctive _crack_. 

“I’ll need some time to figure out his exact location,” she said, surprisingly solemn. “I’ll portal you to him as soon as we know where they’re headed.”

He nodded shortly, his eyes locking on the glass when a man stepped into frame. His was tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair. His uniform declared him someone of importance.

Geralt watched the soldiers hand fist into the back of Jaskier’s ragged tunic and hoist the bard to his feet. Jaskier stumbled, eyes wide as he was dragged to a hastily erected tent. 

The solider didn’t waste a moment once he was inside. He began pawing at the bard, manoeuvring them to the pallet...

“That’s enough,” Yen said quickly, pulling Ciri close to her chest as the scrying glass faded until Geralt’s furious reflection stared back at him.

”Bring it back,” Geralt demanded, his voice hoarse. “Yennifer, bring it back. I need to see.”

”No,” she said, uncompromising. “ _You don’t._ What you need to do is bathe, eat and rest. I’ll track down your bard and together we’ll bring him back. Agreed?”

He wanted to argue, to rant and wreck everything in his path. Except Ciri was staring up at him with wide, tearful eyes.

He needed to do better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so comments kind of feed me. Please let me know what you think if you have the time :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small filler chapter :)

Jaskier soft humming accompanied the gentle strumming of his lute. He kept his head down, watching Cahir and Davison from the corner of his eye, observing both mens stances as they leaned over Cahir’s desk and discussed the large map laid out over its surface. From what Jaskier could gather from their hushed conversation, Aedirn forces were massing in the south. Cahir’s regiment was in danger of being cut off from the approaching Nilfgaardian army. 

Jaskier was nursing a small, flickering spark of hope that his fortunes might be improving. If his captors were intercepted there was a possibility he might gain his freedom, providing he didn’t get caught in the crossfire.

If only he could rid himself of the damned chain.

“We’re approaching Tahdam, a small farmers village in the southwest region of Lyria,” Davison pointed to a section of the map. “An ideal opportunity, should we wish to replenish our diminished supplies.”

“If we continue at this pace we’ll reach the army in fourteen days.”

“Even at half rations the supplies will be depleted in nine.”

“Then Tadham it is,” Cahir said decisively, clapping Davison heartedly on the back. “You’ll see to the men?”

“Of course. We’ll be ready by noon,” the smaller man saluted and turned smartly on his heels. Jaskier felt his eyes pass over him on the way out and shuddered a little.

“You were listening,” Cahir noted, startling him.

“Was I not supposed to?” Jaskier asked innocently, his eyes still locked firmly on his lute as he continued to play. “I’ll admit I’m yet to perfect the ability to turn off my hearing, but I promise I’ll continue practicing so as not to offend you in the future.”

That forced a barked laugh out of the other man. “You never learn, do you?”

Jaskier shrugged, fairly confident Cahir wasn’t actually upset and wouldn’t hurt him for his mouthiness, not when it was just the two of them at least. “Some people consider my stubborn streak charming - I prefer to think I’m strong willed. One of many allustrious charms, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Strength of will is admirable,” Cahir agreed, wandering over to Jaskier and running his fingers gently through his hair. His hold tightened suddenly, forcing the smaller man to bear his throat. “But a strong will only gets you so far. Tell me songbird, did your Witcher never think to teach you to fight?”

Jaskier swallowed his response. He hurt. Cahir wasn’t gentle in his affections and was distressingly enthusiastic, to the point that he seemed incapable of keeping his hands to himself for more than a few hours at a time. Jaskier was begining to walk with a limp, much to the amusement of the soldiers, and was sporting several layers of bruises around his throat and wrists. He just wanted to sleep - to rest and recuperate without fear of being attacked. Failing that, getting out of spitting distance of his rapist would be quite the luxury. 

He didn’t want to be hurt anymore. 

“I’m afraid I’m quite hopeless with a blade,” he tugged carefully at Cahir’s grip. “I’m not a fighter,” he said, his tone despondent. “Though I think you’ve probably figured that out for yourself by now.”

“And how do you think your strong will compares to a strong arm?”

Jaskier closed his eyes and allowed himself a single self-deprecating chuckle. “Rather badly it would seem.”

Cahir huffed in response, releasing his hold and gently brushing down Jaskier’s hair. “You have other uses I suppose.”

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat in mortification and ducked his head miserably. He was not a violent man by nature but he wanted Cahir gone. Dead and buried, never to darken his or anyone’s else doorstep again.

Moments later a group of soldiers entered the tent and began the onerous task of packing up its contents. Cahir stepped away from him at last and Jaskier remained on his nest of furs, firmly shackled to the tent pole until it was time for him to mount his horse.

A young soldier with copper coloured skin and a gentle smile unlocked Jaskier’s chain and took his arm with surprising gentleness. “If you’ll follow me, sir bard,” he asked, guiding him outside instead of dragging him out by his elbow.

“Well aren’t you galliant,” Jaskier noted tiredly, eyeing the coil of rope on his shoulder with an inward sigh. “We haven’t spoken before, have we? I’d remember - your accent is decidedly un-Nilfgaardian - my name's Jaskier.”

“I know what your name is,” the soldier said, his tone quiet but clearly amused.

“And you are?” he asked, frowning a little when he was turned away from Orianna and led towards Cahir’s unfriendly looking warhorse. 

The soldier - boy? He couldn’t have been older than eighteen - dimpled a small smile. “It’s Jax.”

“Well met Jax,” Jaskier said cheerily, his gaze lingering on Orianna. “I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your, uh...friends,” he said in a quietly conspiratorial tone. “But my horse is over there.”

“You’re not riding your horse today, sir bard.”

“Jaskier,” he reminded the boy gently. “If I’m not riding Orianna then what -“

“You’ll be riding double with the count,” Jax interrupted apologetically, guiding Jaskier to a stop beside the beast. He let him go briefly to pull a pair of shackles from his belt. “I’ve been instructed to bind your wrists.”

Jaskier didn’t question why it was suddenly necessary to chain his hands. Cahir would want to take every precaution given the threat of the Aedirn army. Still, the idea of being pressed against the man was extremely unappetising. “Front or back?” He asked sullenly.

“Front,” the boy said, taking one of Jaskier’s wrists with an apologetic smile.

“Wait, what about my lute? I can’t exactly hold onto her whilst my hands are tied.”

“I can carry it, if you like?”

Jaskier’s gut instinct was to say no, but honestly what other choice did he have? “Will you take care of her?”

“I’ll do my best but I’ll need to check with the commander,” he answered, which was probably the best Jaskier was going to get.

“Fantastic,” he grumbled, passing it over with a grimace. “Just be gentle, alright. She’s delicate.”

The lad swung the lute carefully over his shoulder before taking out the shackles and enclosing each manacle around Jaskier’s wrists. 

“I like your singing,” he admitted, voice barely more than a murmur. “You have a beautiful voice.”

“You flatter me,” Jaskier drawled, causing the boy to flash a barely there and gone again smile. “Any requests?”

“I don’t know many songs. Not much cause for them where I’m from.” 

“Where is that?” Jaskier asked, his interest piqued. It was rare for him not to recognise an accent.

The lad looked on the verge of answering when he caught sight of Cahir striding purposefully towards them. His mouth closed and his expression turned cold and disinterested.

Jaskier instinctively tried to step back but Jax quickly grabbed his arm, his grip bordering on painful. 

“Ah good,” Cahir said, looking over the shackles with a tight nod. “You’ll have to forgive the inconvenience, bard. Never fear, you’ll be given back the use of your hands soon enough.”

Without further fanfare he grabbed Jaskier around the waist and boosted him onto the back of the horse. “Secure him to the saddle,” Cahir ordered and Jax immediately jumped into action, doing a thorough job of wounding the rope around Jaskier’s thighs and waist until he was thoroughly anchored to the saddle. 

Cahir jumped up in front of him a moment later, his broad back pressing into Jaskier’s front. He moved throughout the camp.

“We’re ready, my lord,” Davison announced, riding next to Cahir and gesturing to his men.

“Excellent. Onwards then.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know why I keep doing these terrible things to Jaskier. I actually really like him :/

Riding double with Cahir was about as torturous as Jaskier imagined it would be. The bard wasn't a large man, but he wasn’t built like a waif either - with Cahir’s bulk taking up most of the saddle Jaskier was feeling decidedly crowded. Doubled with the fact that he was already sore - particularly in certain _delicate_ areas - meant he was feeling more than a little discontented.

Usually, when he was unhappy he liked to voice his complaints loudly and in glorious detail. He refrained, barely, conscious that Cahir was unlikely to be enamoured with his griping.

“Will you halt your infernal squirming,” the soldier eventually snapped, his voice quiet enough not to carry but clearly conveying his annoyance.

At least Jaskier wasn’t the only one that was miserable. 

“I’m sore,” he snapped back venomously, too exhausted to mind his tone, though he was careful to keep his voice to a hissed whisper.

Cahir stiffened, his back straightening and finally - _finally_ \- providing some small measure of distance between them. It didn’t last of course - slowly, without making the movement overly noticeable to anyone who cared to watch - Cahir placed his hand on Jaskier’s thigh, gripping his tender flesh hard enough to cause a brilliant spark of pain. “Talk to me like that again and I’ll show you the true meaning of the word sore, bard.”

Jaskier snorted, fighting down the suicidal desire to laugh. He could feel hysteria bubbling beneath the crumbling facade of aloofness he was attempting to embody. He leaned forward until his head was resting against Cahir’s back and barely resisted the urge to burst into tears. He felt the other man tense for a moment before his hold on Jaskier’s thigh blissfully relaxed.

“I’m tired,” Jaskier admitted, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. He wouldn’t cry - he absolutely refused to blubber amidst hardened soldiers. “How much further?”

He felt more than heard Cahir’s huff of laughter. Of course he would laugh - Jaskier was nothing if not entertaining. “I thought you were a travelling bard. Surely you’re used to worse conditions?”

Jaskier had enough sense of self to realise he wasn’t equipped to handle the constant and prolonged stress he was experiencing. He was afraid of the soldiers, afraid of Cahir and terrified of what his future might hold. It was beyond draining - coupled with the rape and physical pain - he was exhausted. “My travelling habits usually consist of slightly more cheer and merriment.”

“I wouldn’t imagine the white wolf is a particularly cheerful travelling companion.”

“He had his moments,” Jaskier answered honestly.

The man stroked a gentle finger down his thigh. “You were with him for a long time.”

It was an odd choice of words. “We were travelling companions for some time.”

“Only travelling companions?”

Jaskier allowed himself to glare into the back of the other man's thick head. He was careful to moderate his tone when he answered. “Perhaps I flatter myself, but I’ll assume you’ve heard some of my songs. He was my inspiration, nothing more.”

“And what did he get out of your little arrangement I wonder?”

“The honour of my sparkling personality and wonderful company of course,” jaskier said without missing a beat.

Cahir tensed again, presumably wondering whether or not he had been insulted. “You expect me to believe he never bent you over? Not even once?”

From a purely academic standpoint Jaskier was frankly amazed he could still feel so easily mortified. “No, not even once.”

Cahir hummed softly, his tone conveying how little the he believed him. “We’ll be arriving in the village soon. I would advise you not to cause a scene.”

“There goes my plan to start screaming for help. I suppose I’ll have to think up another daring escape plan.”

Cahir turned in the saddle to glare at him. He wasn’t smiling. “Do I need to gag you?”

Jaskier instinctively shrank back as far as his bindings would allow. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I’m not going to do anything.”

The other man turned away, but his hand remained on Jaskier’s leg - a constant reminder that he was restrained. As though the ropes would allow him to forget, or the manacles or the fact that he was surrounded by a score of soldiers.

He made a conscious effort to remain still - he didn’t want to test Cahir’s patience any more than he already had. When they reached the crest of a hill and the village unfurled beneath them Jaskier ducked his head, forcing down the desire to scream out a warning to the unsuspecting people below.

He looked up sharply when he heard the sound of bows being drawn. In the fields below a pair of labourers were running towards the village, screaming and flailing in an attempt to warn their kin. 

Jaskier’s bound hands latched onto Cahir’s cloak when the first arrow pierced the villagers neck. “Oh gods,” he gasped, unable to contain his flinch when the second man was struck down by an arrow in the back. Cahir moved his horse into a canter and Jaskier’s hold tightened as he was jostled forward.

The Nilfgaardians were storming the village. But why? What danger could simple villagers possibly pose to a score of trained soldiers?

He couldn’t bear to watch - he damned himself for a coward but he _couldn’t_ \- watching innocent people cut down as they tried desperately to flee was beyond him.

He heard a child screaming and thought of Rose, of her little trusting face and sweet yearning for an adventurous life.

“Please stop,” he gasped, grasping onto Cahir’s arm. “They’re farmers - they can’t fight you. Cahir, _please_.”

The soldier easily ripped his arm free, knocking his shoulder hard into Jaskier’s chest before raising his sword and chasing down a fleeing woman. The bard didn’t close his eyes in time to block out the sight of her being struck down. He felt wet heat on his cheek and raised a shaking hand to wipe it away. His eyes locked onto the girl's gruesome wound - the poor creature's upper body had almost been cleaved in two - and felt a sudden and violent urge to be sick.

He pressed his hands over his ears and his face against Cahir’s cloak and he sang in a sad, pathetic attempt to block out the ringing sound of misery and death.

*****

Cahir came to a stop outside the largest house the pathetic pisshole of a village had to offer and dismounted. As soon as he was free of the horse the bard tipped forward, his head almost pressed against the saddle as he continued his breathless singing.

“Easy now little bird,” Cahir soothed, pulling out his dagger and cutting the bard free of his bindings. He pulled the lithe man from the horse, forcing him to his feet when his knees buckled. When it became apparent keeping him upright was more trouble than it was worth, Cahir hoisted the smaller man over his shoulder and carried him inside.

He found the only room with a bed and dropped the bard onto a poorly made straw mattress. Jaskier finally reacted, his eyes growing impossibly wide as he uncurled and stared up at Cahir. Barely a moment passed before the bard turned deathly pale and vomited.

“For fuck sake,” Cahir snarled, relieved the little fool at least had enough sense not to be sick on the bed. Despite his annoyance he pressed a gentle hand against the other man's back and rubbed gentle circles across his skin. “Are you done?” he asked when Jaskier finally stopped retching.

“Please...give me some room.”

Cahir considered the request as he stared down at the pretty songbird. He usually detested weakness and would snuff it out with cold detachment, but even he could appreciate the genteel beauty in some creatures.

“It’s different I imagine, watching your Witcher slay monsters.”

The bard looked up at him with sorrow and righteous anger. “Opposed to killing innocent men and women?” he spat, and then more softly. “ _Why_? They posed no threat? You didn’t need to kill them.”

Cahir gave into the impulse to brush back the bard's sweat-damped fringe “I know only too well the company you keep. I won’t risk the wolf coming after me, and so that means no witnesses.”

“You killed them because of me?” he croaked.

“Our emperor was very clear. I won’t fail him in order to spare a handful of filthy peasants.”

“They were people,” the bard cried as he struggled to his feet. “Living human beings that dreamed and had hopes for the future, and you snuffed them out like they were nothing.”

“They were nothing,” Cahir snarled, growing weary of their conversation. He felt some satisfaction when the bard recoiled. “You at least have value, though don’t make the heady mistake of considering us equals. Slaves, even precious ones, are mere trinkets. Your only purpose is to serve our emperor.”

“Fuck your damned emperor,” the bardling snarled before spitting in his face.

Cahir resisted the immediate impulse to gut the little bastard. He wiped his sleeve across his cheek, drew back his hand and backhanded the bard - he watched with satisfaction as he crumpled - he heard his gasped whimper and felt his temper begin to subside.

“You will learn to mind your tongue,” he snarled, grabbing the lithe man by his belt and hoisting him back onto the bed. “Speak ill of our emperor again and I will have you flogged. Spit on me again and I won’t hesitate to break your hand - you remember that threat, yes? Well no more warnings. I will shatter your bones, see if I don’t.”

Cahir felt his jaw tick when he didn’t receive a response. “You think I'm offering empty threats? Heed me well, bard, you don’t need dexterity in both hands to play a lute. I see you favour the left, and so I’ll destroy your right. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” he finally replied.

“Beg for my forgiveness,” Cahir demanded.

Grey eyes, full of loathing, hatred and fear stared up at him. “Please,” he said between gritted teeth. Cahir idly noticed his bottom lip was split. “Forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven,” Cahir said graciously. “Now go to sleep. If I hear so much as a peep from you I’ll truly make you wish you were never born.”

He waited to see if he’d receive an answer but the bard was finally, blessedly silent.


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier was a sweaty, trembling mess by the time Cahir was done with him. He wanted to close his legs, to cover himself - to just move, damn it! He cursed his own cowardice as he lay placidly on the bed, his eyes closed and fists clenched by his ears.

What was wrong with him - _how could he keep letting this happen_? Any other man would fight - any other man would have the courage to at least try to resist. How many more people were going to die because he was too gutless to act?

But then a small voice in his mind, that sounded depressingly like Geralt, squashed any thoughts of rebellion. _He’ll give you to his men_ , the voice whispered. And then he’ll rape you anyway. _You’re a bard - untrained and alone. You can't win._

Jaskier forced himself to listen. He could have his moment of pride, but ultimately what would it cost him? Better to be one man's whore than be thrown to a score of soldiers. Given his apparent worth they might not kill him, but he’d be marred in some inexplicable way, even if it wasn’t physical.

He was not a meek man by nature - oh, he’d roll over easily enough when the mood took him, but he’d never enjoyed being made to feel helpless or weak. Lying placidly whilst his rapist pottered around the room, presumably dawning his gore-covered armour so he could go out and murder more people, was torture. He wanted to scream, to rant and vent his fury...except, he’d never been much good at anger - one of many weaknesses his father had always despised in him.

The bed dipped and Jaskier couldn’t quite contain his flinch. A greedy hand gripped his hip, the touch possessive, entitled.

“Easy, songbird. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure if he managed to muffle a laugh or a sob. He pressed his face into the filthy pillow and forced himself to remain still.

“I’m going out,” Jaskier heard the sound of chains rattling and barely twitched when he felt the chain latch onto the manacle encircling his ankle. “Stay on the bed, sleep. I’ll be back soon.”

Jaskier didn’t so much as twitch, but Cahir took his silence for ascent and left him blissfully alone. He sat up eventually, cringing when the pain hit. He considered lying back down but he wanted to at least cover himself first. The shift was easy enough but he had no way of getting his smalls or trousers over the cuff. He settled for wrapping the sheet around his waist before lying back down.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew the door was open and Jax was stepping inside with a bowl and cup. His smile dropped when he took in Jaskier’s appearance - he could only imagine the image he presented - and he hesitated in the doorway.

“Is that water?” Jaskier asked, nodding towards the cup when the other man didn’t seem inclined to come any closer. He really was incredibly thirsty.

“Oh, oh yes, of course,” the boy said, hurrying into the room. He waited for the bard to sit up before passing him the drink.

Jaskier took a long, satisfying gulp. “Thank you Jax.”

“No problem,” he hesitated for a moment. “Are you hungry?”

Jaskier thought of the girl Cahir rode down, her body broken and mutilated. He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Jax nodded, looking more than a little strained. “Are - are you ok?”

“Of course I am,” Jaskier sniffed, taking another sip. “I’m always ok.” he hesitated, thoughtful. “The villagers - were there any survivors?”

Jax quickly looked away. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded jerkily. “You didn’t strike me as a murderer, Jax.”

The boy flinched. “I’m loyal to the emperor. To his people.”

“They’re not your people though, are they? Are you a slave then? I heard the Nilfgaardians took slaves into their armies - I thought it was nonsense of course. I mean, what sort of fool swears loyalty to their oppressors?”

Jax’s expression hardened then. Jaskier held his ground - Jax was not Cahir.

“You think you can judge me?” the boy spat, his words thick with emotion. “Well then, sir bard, let’s wait and see where your loyalties ultimately lie when you’re trapped in court, unable to flee with enemies on every side.”

“You’re not chained,” Jaskier spat back, refusing to be cowled by a fucking child. “You’re not watched constantly. You could flee anytime, but you choose to stay with them. To kill for them.”

The boy looked on the verge of angry tears. “You don’t know - don’t understand what they would do to me if I ran. The punishment for desertion is...severe. And if I left, what of my future? I don’t know these lands and I have little skill beyond soldiering. Do you truly think I’d survive on my own? That I’d somehow make it back to my conquered homeland? And then what, Jaskier? There’s no one left there for me - there either all dead or enslaved.”

“You could let me go,” Jaskier whispered, the words spilling unbidden from his mouth. “We could escape together. I have connections, resources. I would take care of you, Jax. I just need...please, remove the manacles. Help me.”

The boy hesitated, his expression unsure. Ultimately though terror won out. He shook his head as he retreated to the door. “You can’t run from them. Wherever you go, they’ll find you. Nowhere is safe.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to argue but the boy bolted, leaving him alone. Jaskier stared at the door blankly for a moment. He considered flinging his cup at the wall as a way of releasing the pressure he could feel building inside him, but what would it ultimately achieve other than making him look like a child having a tantrum.

He lay back down and tried to get some sleep.

*********

“Damn it Yen, you said you could track him down. It’s been five days. Where the fuck is he?”

“I’m trying,” the sorceress said calmly, her hands hovering over the scrying mirror as her brow knitted in concentration. “I can see him, but I can’t track him. I’Ve never come across anything like this before. They’re hiding him somehow.”

“Show him to me,” Geralt demanded.

She gave him a pained look. “He’s still alive.”

“Yen,” he said, his voice wrecked. “Please, show me.”

She shook her head but did as he asked, passing her hand over the mirror until his reflection blurred and shimmered, sharpening into the image of the bard.

He heard Yen’s slight intake of breath. “Oh Geralt, you’re just torturing yourself.”

Jaskier was lying in a crumpled heap on a soiled, straw-filled mattress. A blood spattered sheet was wrapped around his lower half. His eyes were open but vacant - like a doll staring into nothingness. If his chest wasn’t moving Geralt might have believed him dead.

“Do you think the blood is his?”

“He doesn’t look injured,” she answered carefully.

He nodded, his gaze travelling over every inch of skin he could see. He wanted to reach out, to make sure the bard really was unharmed.

“They’ve chained him to the fucking bed,” he growled, his free hand tightenin on the table in front of him until he heard a distinct crack. There was no questioning what was being done to him - Jaskier was being raped. Probably repeatedly. Likely by more than one person.

“They’ve taken him for a reason, Geralt. They won’t damage him.”

“You don’t think fucking him against his will is damaging?”

She gave him a hard look. “There’s a fine line between a bard and a whore in the minds of many. Jaskier has been a bard for a long time. This won’t break him, Geralt.”

He turned to face her. “What are you saying? That this has happened to him before?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, placing her hand soothingly on his shoulder. “But I do know the little bastard is tougher than he looks,” she leaned forward suddenly, her nails biting into his arm. “The manacles - do you see the inscription?”

His gaze jumped to the metal curled around the bard’s naked ankle. He couldn’t read the words but he recognised the language.

“It’s the manacles, Gerald. They’re hiding him somehow. Quickly, grab me some parchment. I need to understand the nature of the spell,” she made a sharp gesture with her hand and his image disappeared. “Once I know its origin I can track it back to the source. We can use it to find him.”

Geralt went to Yennifer’s desk and passed her the requested parchment. He watched as she used her fingers to etch the inscription onto the paper.

“I’m going to kill them all,” he said.

She gave him an unreadable look. “I’ll need help deciphering the spell. Given the urgency of the matter I’m going to find Tissaia. Will you come with me?”

What else could he do? “I’ll get Ciri.”


End file.
